The Best of All Possible Worlds
by adesso
Summary: The Unification of Italy, through the brothers' eyes. Part 2: After a disastrous first attempt at liberation, Romano decides to join one thousand of his brother's people in a march to unite the country.
1. Part 1

**The Best of All Possible Worlds, Part I**

_"Optimism!" said Cacambo, "what is that?"  
"Alas!" replied Candide, "it is the obstinacy of maintaining that everything is best when it is worst."_

France's visits to Austria's house were rare these days, and Veneziano never liked to be around when any such visit occurred. He hated the way the air seemed so heavy, the way Hungary's face became so cold and guarded, the way France's eyes moved about the room and over all of them as though taking stock of a treasury – it all made Veneziano want to flee the scene.

Which is exactly what he had done that day. He had taken his broom outside to sweep the leaves from the stone paths – only it took him some time to actually clear the paths, after he had gathered the debris into a pile and guided the broom through them, brushing them carelessly into all kinds of patterns.

He was in the middle of shaping a pile of dirt and grass into a wolf when he heard a deep, smooth voice behind him.

"Ah, there you are, Italie!"

Veneziano jumped and whirled around, dropping his broom in the process. France glided towards him, the plume of his hat swaying in the gentle breeze. His coat was lined with silver that glinted in the fading sunlight. He bowed down to pick up the broom, tutting softly.

"Autriche still has you sweeping his floors like a common maid?" He laughed – a lilting sound, deliberate in its condescension – and patted Veneziano on the cheek, his golden rings cold against the younger man's skin. "Ah, if your Papa could see you now! How very tragic you are!"

Veneziano gave a little smile. "It's not so bad. I still get to paint, and Austria even lets me sing sometimes. I still get to make nice things!"

"You make _beautiful_ things, Italie." France knelt down so that his heavy-lidded eyes were level with Veneziano's. "That is why we all want our own piece of you, _non_?" He straightened again, smirking. "And you could never stop us, even were we all to tear you to little pieces! Being so weak as you are." He lightly tapped the broom handle against the top of Veneziano's head. "Only barely younger than I, and yet look how small you still are!"

Veneziano rubbed his head; standing straight, he still barely came up to France's chest. "My brother was always taller."

France laughed again, bringing a hand to his brow and closing his eyes. He planted the broom to the ground and rested his long, thin hand upon it like a scepter. His hair glowed golden in the light of the setting sun. Veneziano wanted to freeze him there, a portrait of haughty splendor. "But your brother, last I saw him, did not even reach my shoulders! What a sorry state you both are in, not even a single flag to your name."

Veneziano's eyes widened. "Oh, no, we have flags! We have lots of flags! Toscana has one, and Firenze, and in Veneto we have a wonderful flag, there's a lion and—"

France sighed, dropping the broom so that he could place his hands on either side of Veneziano's head. He gave a pitying smile. "How can the brain that birthed Machiavelli be so very simple?"

Veneziano let out a weak little laugh. "People always tell me that thinking's not my strength. Even my brother used to say so."

"Ah yes, your dear brother. You do not see him so much these days, do you?"

Staring down at the cobblestone path, Veneziano shook his head. It had been many years since he had even heard from his brother. "No. But I think Spain takes good care of him. I'm sure he's happy now."

France gave a twisted smirk. "I only hope Spain treats his slaves better than your master does."

Veneziano picked up his broom again, gathering the dirt and leaves together. The wolf he'd started had become distorted by the breeze, so he set about defining the outline once more. "It's not so bad. Austria says I can't take care of my people by myself, so… it's better this way, really."

"Perhaps he is right." France walked behind Veneziano and placed his hand over the boy's, helping him sweep the dirt into a long, curved tail. "Or perhaps," he murmured, the breath of his words hot against Veneziano's ear, "you simply need better guidance, someone who could teach you the things your current master does not wish you to know."

Veneziano was frozen in place, staring down at the dirt-and-leaves wolf. A gust of wind came through, tearing the wolf's legs away. Behind him, France made a noise of disgust.

"To think!" he exclaimed, throwing a hand into the air. "The birthplace of our culture, the warden of all our greatest art, has been reduced to a servant boy making shapes in the dirt!" He seized Veneziano by the shoulders, whirling him around, his fiery gaze boring into Veneziano's ashen face. "Do you not tremble at the injustice? What would your grandfather say if he could see you now?"

Veneziano tried to look away, but France took hold of his chin, tilting it up as he lowered his voice. "Does your heart not yearn to be with your brother?"

Veneziano's body quaked as he tried to summon to his mind's eye his last vision of Romano – but he would be older now, wouldn't he? Taller, no doubt, perhaps more slender as well, no more of the pudgy arms and stomach they'd both had as children. But he would still have the warm, sun-kissed skin, and the dark, curled hair, framing in wisps his round face. Veneziano pictured him in the city of his name – but no, Rome did not belong to either of them anymore.

"Francia…" he whispered, choking on his sobs.

France ran his fingers through Veneziano's wayward hair. "Have hope, dear little brother. I can help you. But first—" He touched the broom that Veneziano still clutched. "Austria gave you this, did he not? To show that you are his slave. Hold it aloft for me."

Veneziano did so, a hand at either end of the handle; the broom shook in his unsteady hands. France reached towards his belt, and the thin blade of his rapier was struck by the gold of the setting sun.

The blade sliced neatly through the wood, and Veneziano dropped the pieces immediately so that he could cover his mouth in horror.

France smiled, sheathing his sword, and he patted Veneziano gently on the head. "It will not be so easy as that, I am afraid – but it will be far more glorious."

He winked, but Veneziano didn't see. He looked from the pieces of his broom, then to the scattered remains of his wolf upon the cobblestones, and his hands began to shake anew.

His salvation came in the form of Hungary's voice, calling to him from the house. "Italy! Come inside!"

Smiling still, France took Veneziano's shaking hand in his and led him back to Austria's house. When they reached the door, Hungary's eyes were narrowed, fixed upon France.

"What were you doing with him, France?" she asked immediately.

France released Veneziano's hand and gave a loud sigh. "So suspicious! We were simply chatting. I so love to hear Italie's sweet language – it is almost as beautiful as my own, _non_?"

Hungary placed her hands on Veneziano's shoulders, but her gaze never left France. "Come on, Italy, it's time for dinner."

Veneziano turned away as France spoke again, "Yes, Italie, feast upon your slave rations!"

He was reaching for the doorknob when the door swung open on its own, revealing Austria. Veneziano jumped back; but Austria, too, was only looking at France.

"Inside," he said to Veneziano.

When Veneziano was safe on the other side of the door, he slumped against it, letting out a slow breath. He could still hear the voices outside.

"I'll ask you not to put any silly ideas into my ward's head."

"Ah, I see! Servants of the great Austrian Empire are not allowed to have ideas of their own!"

"Italy's own ideas are perfectly welcome. It is _yours_ that concern me."

"You may find someday that his heart's desires are not so different from my own. He simply needs the courage to act upon them."

"Courage is not something he has ever known; that is not likely to change."

"Think that now, if it brings you comfort. I hope, for your sake, that my harmful ideas have not broken through to his head." Veneziano had to strain his ears to hear France's murmur: "_Après moi, le déluge_."

-

_Vienna, 1796_

The next time he saw France, it was in the dead of night, when Veneziano was roused from his slumber by the fingers that gently stroked his hair. He opened his eyes to find France sitting beside him on the bed, smiling, humming, his hair partially tied back by a blue ribbon. There was a golden glow on his face, from the light that peeked through the window. Maybe it was not night after all, maybe the sun was rising.

Or maybe it hadn't been France who had awoken him, but the creeping smell of smoke.

Veneziano sat up, rubbing his eyes. "What's going on?" he asked, his eyelids still heavy with sleep.

France leaned in close; his voice was low and quick, as though sharing a great secret. "I am going on a trip – a pilgrimage of sorts! It is very exciting, don't you think?"

"A pilgrimage?" Veneziano tilted his head. "Are you going to Jerusalem?"

France laughed. "Oh, I am sure I will get even there, eventually. But let us start with little steps. For now I am going south, and I think you should come with me." He tapped Veneziano's nose and winked. "Perhaps we will meet someone dear to you."

Veneziano's eyes widened. Outside he could hear faint screams and gunfire, but that was merely the backdrop for the true subject, the whirlwind going through Veneziano's head.

France held out his hand. Veneziano gave him a little smile, took his hand, and allowed himself to be led out of the room, out of Austria's burning house.

-

_Paris, 1797_

He was living in France's house now – "So that I may better protect you!" He would much rather have been in Venice, of course, but it was not so bad. Paris was beautiful, and its people full of life – different from the unhurried, unashamed liveliness of his own people; these were men and women who were conquering the map, who looked to the future with proud eyes.

And France himself treated Veneziano well – he had a lavish room, paint and canvas, and access to any book in all the libraries of Paris, and all he had to do was whatever France told him to.

He was curled up in a plush chair in the parlor, just off the main foyer, reading a book as he waited for France to return from his campaign into Romano's lands. Veneziano was almost too anxious to follow the words; but the story was engrossing, full of twists and turns, and deciphering the occasional unfamiliar French term kept him distracted from other things, like the promise France had made before he'd left: _Your brother will be joining us soon._

When he heard the door open, Veneziano snapped the book shut and scrambled towards the foyer. France swept into the hall, removing his hat, his uniform looking almost as neat as when he'd left. He did not close the door behind him, but instead gestured for someone waiting beyond – "Come, come, this way!"

Veneziano ventured further into the foyer, pressing his back against the wall, his eyes fixed upon the open doorway as he clutched the book to his chest.

Three soldiers entered the house then, carrying a giant painting framed in gold. Other soldiers followed, bearing aloft more paintings and a few sculptures.

France directed them towards the parlor. "The portrait will go on this wall, I think – and that bust, put it on the table for now. I have a space in the hallway for that painting, I think—"

The last soldier to enter closed the door behind him.

As France was ordering the soldiers to different areas of the house, Veneziano came slowly into the room, skirting the edge of the wall to stay out of the soldiers' way. He looked up at the portrait that was now being hung on the wall; he recognized it – he had been there the day it was given to the Vatican.

France had his back to him now; Veneziano touched his shoulder. "Francia?"

France whirled around, smiling. "Ah, Italie! I hope you did not feel my absence too fiercely, my darling."

Veneziano gave him a little smile, his eyes wide and hopeful. "Romano's going to be here soon, right?"

But France was focused on the book Veneziano still held; he took Veneziano's wrist, lifting it so that he could see the book's cover. "Ah, Voltaire! What a smart and surprising choice for you to make!" His brows furrowed upward as his smiling lips stuck out in a pout, and he patted Veneziano's cheek. "But do not think too hard about it. The world is not so tragic a place as that." His forehead relaxed as he gave a light shrug. "Especially now that I am about to rule it, no?"

France turned to leave then, to follow the soldiers into the rest of the house, when Veneziano called out to him, "But Francia, my brother—you said—"

"Ah, yes!" France turned back to him. This time, his sad expression was not quite sad enough to wrinkle his brows. "Politics, my dear, it is such an ugly thing. Your brother is out of my reach for now, but it will not always be so." He placed a hand on Veneziano's back, guiding him out of the room. "But come, you must see all the lovely art the Pope has given me!"

-

_1799_

Austria did not come for him in the night, as France had done; he came early in the morning, with a curt rapping on the door.

He looked no different than Veneziano remembered – it had only been two years, after all – and his face betrayed nothing of what he might have been thinking. A tall, fair-haired man stood behind him, looking out at the gardens of France's estate.

Veneziano clung to the door, his eyes wide; but Austria spared him only the briefest of glances. "Hello, Italy. We've come to speak with France."

Veneziano turned back to the empty hallway. It was still early – perhaps France was not even awake yet. He led them through the house, glancing into each room for any signs of France. They found nothing, until they reached the dining room, and Veneziano spotted a folded piece of paper set upright on the table. He picked it up, unfolded it, and was met with France's large, elegant script:

_Mon Italie—_

_I have gone to Africa with my little general – he is so ambitious! It is quite charming. My heart shall ache without your pretty face, but I hope you will not despair to be apart from me. I shall return when I have conquered Egypt. Always remember, your brother will be joining us soon._

_Affectionately yours, France._

Austria, reading over Veneziano's shoulder, gave a delicate sniff of disdain. "So careless with his stolen property, isn't he. No matter – let's go home, Italy." Turning to leave, he added, "Russia, if you would."

The tall stranger smiled at Veneziano, waggled his fingers at him in a cheery little wave before wrapping one burly arm around his waist and tossing him – rather gently – over his shoulder.

Russia caught up with Austria and asked, in a voice that was not so deep or serious as Veneziano had expected, "Where to now, Austria?"

Austria opened the front door and walked out. "We return north," he replied, "and rendezvous with England. There is still more of France's chaos to undo, and we must prepare for when that irritating general of his returns."

As Russia turned to close the door behind them, Veneziano was now facing Austria. He braced his hands against the thick coat of Russia's back so that he could lift himself up. "What about me?"

Austria looked at him with his brows slightly raised, as if he'd forgotten the boy was there. "You'll be returning home, of course," he said. "Back to Vienna. I see no reason to punish you for France's transgression."

Veneziano smiled. "That's nice of you, Austria!"

Austria's nose wrinkled briefly. "Unless somehow you've developed a loyalty to France. It is not uncommon for hostages, or so I'm told."

Russia remained with his back to Austria so that Veneziano could still face him; so Veneziano propped his elbows up on Russia's shoulder while he rested his chin in his hands, frowning in thought. "France said," he replied slowly, "that he would bring my brother to live with us."

"Naturally. He had his eyes on the entire peninsula. I'm sure he would have all of us living under his thumb, if he could manage it. But that does not answer my query."

Veneziano stared at the ground as he pondered the idea. Was he loyal to France? He did rather like France, he knew that much at least. He was a wonderful cook, and a very good artist, and he had so many interesting novels in his library and exciting new ideas to share. And he'd doted on Veneziano whenever he'd had the chance to – always stroking his hair and saying kind things about him, or at least saying things in a kindly way.

Before he could formulate that into an answer, though, Austria sighed and shook his head. "Ah, forgive me, it is a silly thing to ask you. One who is not really a country would have a difficult time understanding the concept of allegiance. Russia, you may set him down."

Veneziano slid down Russia's front as Russia set him on his feet and patted him on the shoulder. They both followed Austria to the carriage that waited to take Veneziano back to Vienna.

He would only stay there for a year before France returned for him.

-

_1806_

"—and your bad sauces, and your wine sucks, and—"

France pressed a finger to Romano's lips, silencing his tirade, though his cheeks were still puffed out and burning red. "Quiet now, little Rome. Let's not wake him just yet." And then he opened the door.

It was dark inside the room, but the light from the hallway cast a dim glow across the figure sleeping in the bed. Romano glimpsed a round face and wavy auburn hair, long lashes resting on cheeks just slightly paler than his own.

Romano had approached the bed without realizing it, and when he glanced back at France he found him leaning against the doorframe with a satisfied smile. "Still so small, is he not?"

"Are you kidding?" Romano returned his gaze to Veneziano, lowering his voice just slightly. "He's gotten bigger."

"Has he? I find it difficult to tell!"

Romano stuck his nose in the air and waved towards France. "That's because you're not family." Not that he and Veneziano were much of a family. This was the first time in a few decades that Romano had even seen his brother, though Veneziano wrote to him often enough (usually with a little drawing attached, sometimes even a sonnet). Romano was not so good at writing back, though.

"This will be your first time at my home, no?" France murmured. "Perhaps you are uneasy – shall I stay here and cuddle you both while you sleep?"

Romano tramped over to shut the door in France's face.

He turned back, blinking as he tried to adjust to the darkness, groping about until he found the edge of the bed. He sat down and pulled his shoes off, but he kept his clothes on as he lay back on the bed (certainly couldn't trust France not to come back, after all!).

The half moon shining through the room's only window gave just enough light to faintly illuminate Veneziano from behind, so that Romano could see the errant curl sticking up from his brother's thick, soft hair. He could discern enough of Veneziano's face to know that he was sleeping soundly, one cheek squished against the pillow. Looking just at the outline of his hair, his shadowed face, Romano could almost imagine that this was the same little boy he'd met in Ravenna after their Papa died, the boy who'd had no other name to him than "North."

"_Buona notte, Nord_," he whispered into the darkness.

In the morning they had a grand breakfast, and the brothers sat at either side of France, who rested his chin upon one hand as he smiled at Romano. "Isn't this so much nicer?" he purred.

Romano was slouched so far down in his chair that Veneziano couldn't see his neck anymore. He kept his head forward, but glared at France out of the corner of his eye. "Just make sure you stay the hell out of the Papal States, is all I gotta say."

France let out a high, cheery laugh. "Oh, my dear, why would I possibly want to upset the Pope like that?"

He lifted his finger and gave Romano's nose a playful tweak. Romano continued to glare at him through narrowed eyes, his lips pursed in consternation.

"That's right, Romano!" Veneziano interjected, his mouth full of eggs. He swallowed and spoke again in a clearer voice, "France has been really nice to me all this time, and he'll do nice things for you too, and he's Catholic too, you know, so of course he's going to be nice to the Pope!"

France shook his head and chuckled, tousling Veneziano's hair. "Such a sweet little boy! Now, I have things I must attend to, but I shall be back soon."

Romano waited until he heard the front door close before he sat up straight in his seat, throwing his hands into the air. "_Nice_? You call that bastard _nice_?"

Veneziano's cheeks were stuffed with sausage, so he simply nodded and smiled in response.

Snorting, Romano slumped back in the chair. "And _Catholic_, too. Sure. He's about as Catholic as Martin Luther."

Veneziano swallowed his food and said, "But France united us! We get to be together now, and that's a good thing, right?"

Romano set his chin in one hand, while the other tapped against the chair's armrest. "It'd be nice if they'd let us be on our own for once."

"Oh, we couldn't possibly be on our own."

Romano scowled at him. "Says who?"

Veneziano shrugged. "France. And Austria. Even Hungary says it's probably true."

Romano blew his bangs up and away from his eyes. "Yeah, Spain says the same thing. Still!" He squinted at Veneziano, who was watching him with a little smile. "What?"

Veneziano folded his arms on the table, resting his cheek on his forearm as he gazed up at his brother. "You're bigger now, but you haven't changed very much! I'm glad."

Romano raised his brows for a moment, then rolled his eyes. "Yeah, and you're finally filling out. I guess France is feeding you better than Austria did."

And then he smiled, just a little, and Veneziano burst into a grin.

-

_1809_

Veneziano was showing France his latest watercolor painting when they heard the stomping of feet and Romano's shrieking voice, "_Francia!_"

France didn't look up from the painting. "Yes, little Rome?"

Romano was trembling, and Veneziano knew that if he started yelling again his voice would be cracking the entire time; but he took a long breath and spoke in a low voice instead, "Who the _hell_ do you think you are?" When France smiled at him, he held up his finger. "No, don't answer that. I know who you think you are. You think you're king of the fucking world."

France shrugged. "Perhaps not yet. But soon enough!"

"That doesn't give you the right to fuck around with the Holy See." He held up his hands, his fingers and thumbs pressed together as he gestured wildly. "What did I tell you about staying out of the Papal States?"

Shaking his head, his smile never fading, France leaned back and draped an arm around Veneziano, who was glancing between him and Romano with wide eyes. "I'm afraid the Pope has made things very difficult for my dear emperor lately. We are only doing what is necessary."

"What's _necessary_? Sending your armies into Rome and _stealing_ the Pope's lands?"

France didn't seem to have heard him. "Besides! How wonderful now that your entire peninsula is under a single rule!"

"You'll be excommunicated for this," Romano said, clenching his fists at his sides. "You and your little tyrant and anyone else who wants to help him!"

A slow, soft laugh rumbled deep in France's throat. He stood and approached Romano, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You and the Pope are living in the past. You are going to have to face reality sooner or later, and then you will realize—" He leaned in close, his lips nearly brushing Romano's ear as he murmured, "God does not rule the world anymore. _I do_."

He walked out of the room, leaving Romano sputtering wordlessly. A full minute must have passed before Romano raised his fists and cursed in Italian. "_Bastardo_!"

Veneziano stood and approached him slowly, wringing his hands, bowing his head and hunching his shoulders as if to shrink away from his brother's rage. "Romano…"

"I can't take this anymore, I can't take _him_ anymore! Patting our heads like we're his good little servants, that condescending son of a bitch—acting like he's doing us a _favor_ with all this! Like things are so much better!" He turned away from Veneziano, waving his hands in frustration. "Nothing's changed, it's just the same old shit of other people telling us what to do. It's like we're stuck in the goddamned feudal era while everyone else gets to do whatever the hell they want!"

Veneziano ran forward and threw himself against Romano then, wrapping his arms around his waist and burying his face into the back of his neck. Romano made a strangled noise at the back of his throat; but he relaxed quickly.

"This has changed," Veneziano muttered against Romano's shirt. "We got to know each other again."

Romano let out a sigh, resting his hand on Veneziano's. "Yeah, well. We could've done that on our own. We didn't need France's help."

Veneziano lifted his head and set his chin on Romano's shoulder, smiling. "But it's all right! France is still going to take care of us, and he know what's best!"

Romano craned his neck to stare at him with furrowed brows and a curled lip. "How the hell can you smile at all this? He's been manipulating you this whole time! He doesn't care about either of us, he just wants to control us!"

"Well, yes, but it's okay! He's letting us stay together!" When Romano continued to stare at him in bemusement, Veneziano just held him tighter. "Everything will be fine from now on. You'll see. From now on we'll be together, no matter what."

-

_Vienna, 1815_

Two chairs had been set out for them while they waited in the hall, but Romano hadn't sat still for more than a minute. He now paced the hallway outside the conference room, snapping his fingers at his sides, muttering to himself, and making various noises of displeasure. So Veneziano used the other chair as a makeshift drawing table, for the paper and charcoal Spain had given him with an apologetic smile ("You wouldn't want to sit in on these meetings anyway, really, I'll bet you'd be bored to death!").

Veneziano had one leg tucked underneath himself, and he kept wanting to swing the other leg but was surprised to find it actually reached the floor. So he settled for bouncing it in place while he hunched over the paper.

"And _why the hell can't we go inside_?" Romano asked for the fourth or fifth time, Veneziano had lost count by then.

Veneziano shrugged as he sketched the rough outline of a tree. "Maybe it doesn't have anything to do with us."

"Bullshit." Romano stopped in his tracks so that he could rock back and forth on his heels, his arms crossed over his chest. "They just don't want us to be there while they're screwing us over."

"It's all right, though." Veneziano tilted his head, then held the paper up and away from himself, blinking over and over as he tried to see the drawing with fresh eyes. "They all know what they're doing!"

Romano let out a huff of indignation. "Doesn't it bother you, though?"

"Hey, hey, what do you think, brother?" Veneziano held the drawing up for Romano to see.

His cheeks puffing, Romano's narrowed gaze darted back and forth from his brother to the paper. At last he pointed towards the side of the page. "The windows on the house look like shit. They're all out of proportion."

Romano resumed his pacing as Veneziano squinted at the paper. Then his eyebrows raised and his lips rounded in a comprehending, "Ooh," and he set the paper down again, charcoal in hand. "And you know – maybe France will put in a good word for us."

Romano barked out a laugh. "Are you kidding? Hasn't he screwed us over enough already?" He scuffed his tattered shoes against the tile, as if trying to rub off all the years of dirt onto Austria's shining floor. "Besides," he muttered, "we wouldn't want France on our side anyway right now."

Veneziano smudged some of the shading in his garden scene. "I guess he's made everyone really mad now, hasn't he?"

"Sure," Romano replied with a snort. "He stole all the lands they'd stolen before."

The door opened then, and Veneziano stood as a flood of nations and their diplomats entered the hallway. France was in the lead, his head held high even as blood trickled from his bruised nose. England exited soon after him, storming off in the opposite direction.

France passed by the brothers without so much as a glance. Veneziano gave a tiny smile and a wave at his back.

"'Bye, Francia!"

A throat was cleared nearby, and Veneziano turned away from France to find Spain standing there; Romano was pointedly ignoring him. Veneziano approached them both.

"What happened to France's nose?" he asked.

Spain laughed, shrugging as he scratched the back of his head. "Well, you know how it is when France and England have to stay in the same room together for a long time…" His eyes darted back and forth between the brothers as he patted his sides, shifting his weight, his smile shaky. "Well," he said at last to Veneziano, tousling the boy's hair, "it was good seeing you. Take care, all right?"

Veneziano grinned at him and nodded. "Right! You take care, too!" Romano watched his brother out of the corner of his eyes, his lips pursed; he still wouldn't look at Spain.

"Well, Romano?" Spain said.

Romano let out a long breath through his nose. "So that's how it's gonna be, huh?"

Veneziano's brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

But he got his answer right away, when Austria entered the hallway, followed by two guards. He swept past all of them without a word, but to snap his fingers at point at Veneziano.

The guards came up on either side of him, picking him up by the arms and dragging him after Austria. Veneziano could do little more than yelp, his hand outstretched toward his brother – but Romano could only stare, his mouth agape, his eyes wide.

"Hey, Austria!"

It was Spain who saved him then, his sudden shout making Austria halt. He slowly turned, and after letting out a sigh, inclined his head to the guards, who set Veneziano down and continued down the hall.

"Be brief," Austria said to him.

Veneziano ran back, slamming into his brother and clutching his shirt as he buried his face in Romano's chest. Romano very nearly had the wind knocked out of him.

"Oof!" he gasped. He held his hands up as he stared down at his brother's trembling shoulders. "D-dammit, Veneziano!" When Veneziano let out a muffled sob, Romano rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on, it's not like we're never gonna see each other again."

Veneziano shook his head, rubbing tears and snot all across Romano's shirt. "But it's different now."

"How is it different?" Romano grumbled as he stroked his brother's hair. "It's always been like this, remember?"

Veneziano's voice was little more than a whisper. "But now we know what it's like – to be together."

Romano set his chin on Veneziano's head as he draped his arms over his shoulders. "Yeah, but— that wasn't real, you know? It was all France being a manipulative jerk. We were just— just his _trophies_."

But it was enough, Veneziano thought. It was enough to have someone there who could recognize his own language; it was enough to share a house with someone who did not scorn a good-morning kiss; it was enough to have someone who wanted to sing the hymns in their grandfather's tongue; it was enough to have Romano as a brother again, and not as a stranger from a foreign land.

Because now he knew what it was like: and it would have been so much easier if Veneziano had never known.

Romano gave a jerk when Spain touched his shoulder. "I think Austria's getting antsy," he muttered in Romano's ear.

Romano pushed Veneziano away, but kept his hands on his shoulders as he searched his brother's eyes. "Gotta go now," he said in a gruff voice, "but— listen, we'll see each other again. So stop crying." And he pressed a quick kiss to Veneziano's brow before whirling around and walking away.

Veneziano watched them go, watched as Spain tried to place his hand on Romano's shoulder before it was slapped away.

And then they were gone.

Austria cleared his throat, and Veneziano turned to face him. "This upsets you. I understand."

Veneziano stared down at his feet and whispered, "I don't want to go."

"I know. But I will not punish you for it. You have been living under a terrible influence, after all."

"But what if—" Veneziano clutched his trembling hands to his chest. "What if I liked things better when I was with France?"

"You are an impressionable boy. It's to be expected that he would influence you so easily. Try to put his ideas from your mind."

"But they're not France's ideas!" Veneziano looked up, his entire body shaking now against the weight of his words, at Austria's cold gaze. "They're _my_ ideas, and they're what _I_ want!"

Austria came forward, his hand raised, and Veneziano tensed as he flinched away – not that Austria was known for striking his wards, but Veneziano had come to expect it anyway now, because his life seemed to have become a string of bad surprises. But Austria did not strike him – instead his hand came down to rest on Veneziano's shoulder, his slender fingers twitching as though the touch burned his skin, and when Veneziano looked up he saw Austria's face contorted just slightly.

"Believe me when I tell you, Italy," he said in a slow, stilted voice, "that I have only your best interests at heart. I am sparing you a great torment. You have no idea what it is like to be your own nation: wars, revolutions, territory disputes, royal rivalries, political maneuvering, betrayed alliances that would crush someone so weak-hearted as you. I assure you, your life as it is now is the best it could possibly be. Continue to do what you do best: cultivate your arts. And you will be happiest."

Veneziano could not look at him then, and he wasn't quite sure why. He was such a tactile person, and a single comforting touch could mean the world to him at times, and now Austria was showing him the most genuine affection that he had ever seen from him. And still, Veneziano could not look at him. Because his world had changed now: after holding his brother, all other touches were different now.

"But I will still miss Romano," he whispered to the floor.

Austria removed his hand from Veneziano's shoulder and used it to push his glasses further up his pointed nose. "Well. No one can have everything they desire. But your brother will get along fine without you, and your people will get along fine without his. This is how it must be – for the good of everyone."

Veneziano gazed up at his stern face, the portrait of all that he would be returning to – servitude, a home that was not his own, a place where good-morning kisses were verboten. And he broke into a grin.

"You're right, Austria! You know what's best!"

Austria nodded. "Good boy. Gather your things, and let's go home."

Veneziano returned to the chair where his charcoal drawing lay, and he picked up the piece of paper to look at his scene again. The shading was too intense. Dark clouds blocked the sky over the tiny house and its tiny garden. It was a very unhappy picture.

He folded the paper, and again, and again, until it was entirely creased, and he placed it back on the chair and followed Austria home.

-

_to be continued_

-

**Historical Notes:**

-Voltaire's _Candide_ is the story of irrepressible optimism in the face of the world's harsh reality. The main protagonist encounters one hardship after another, and maintains up until the very end that "everything is for the best in this best of all possible worlds."

-Napoleon began his conquest of Italy when he was commander of the French army: he quickly seized most of northern Italy, including Venice and much of the Piedmont. He began moving south towards Rome, but was persuaded to turn back by Pius VI, who relinquished several territories as well as many works of art from the Vatican.

Only a few years later, however, Napoleon was called away to Africa, leaving the Italian territories to be swiftly retaken by Austrian and Russian armies of the Second Coalition. But Napoleon returned the following year and led an even more decisive conquest of Italy. By 1809 France controlled the entire peninsula, after having annexed the Papal States and stripping Pope Pius VII of his governing power. Furious, the Pope excommunicated Napoleon; the emperor responded by arresting the Pope and holding him prisoner in Paris.

-In the midst of Napoleon's final downfall, the Congress of Vienna convened to undo all the political and territorial upheaval that France had spread throughout Europe. For Italy, this meant a complete return to the prior status quo: the Spanish Bourbon leaders of the south were reinstated, the Papal States were restored to the Pope, and northern Italy was once again under control of the Austrian Empire.


	2. Part 2

Thank you for the reviews! I really appreciate all your comments. You guys give me warm fuzzies. Here's Part 2, hope you enjoy it!

**Really Dumb Disclaimer:** This is not a historical essay. This is a Hetalia fanfic. As such, it is not 100% historically accurate (partially because I had a hard time finding information on the subject). Also, this story is mostly about the Italy brothers as people – Romano's actions here do not reflect how I think all southern Italians felt at the time, same with Veneziano and the northern Italians.

Just, y'know. So we're all aware.

-

**The Best of All Possible Worlds, Part II**

-

"I am telling you, because I think you would like to know what exactly it means."

Austria had decided to tell him, not long after they'd returned from the Congress, when he had spent an afternoon at the piano, suddenly unable to join any notes together into something satisfactory. So when Veneziano entered the room with a bucket and a large brush and sat down to scrub the floors, Austria told him – he waited until Veneziano had finished a good portion of the floor, because parts of it did need a decent scrubbing, and then he said it, as clearly as he could, because ambiguity might make him hopeful and hope would only make the truth more painful.

Veneziano froze in place, on his knees, both hands on the brush trapped in mid-scrub. He stared wide-eyed at the floor. "But… when you say 'no more,' you don't mean… _gone_."

Austria's fingers slid across the keys, seeking the higher notes that played in his head when he listened to Veneziano speak. "I do mean gone, Italy. Gone, and he will not come back."

Veneziano snapped out of his daze with a quick shake of his head. He smiled knowingly, moving the scrub once again. "Oh no, that's not true. He promised me, you see, he said—"

"It matters not what he might have promised," Austria snapped, harsher than he had intended. "Reality is what matters, and reality agrees with me."

The serene smile on Veneziano face was giving way to distress. "But… how could… how did it…"

Austria pressed one key, then a higher one, running a melody through his head. "What's done is done. It is pointless to ask questions. I simply felt it would be best if you heard it now, from me, rather than later from someone else."

Veneziano sat back on his heels, still pressing the brush to the floor. "That… that's kind of you, Austria." From anyone else, Austria would have interpreted that as sarcasm. But he had learned by now that Veneziano grasped at anything he could perceive as kindness, like a parched man in a desert, clung to it and nurtured it, smiling at shadows in the unkind desolace.

Sighing, Austria removed his hands from the piano. "The floor is clean enough. You may go if you wish."

It took a moment for the words to register, but eventually Veneziano did place the brush into the bucket, taking hold of the handle with both hands as he stood. When he was almost to do the door, he paused. "Austria?"

"Yes, Italy?"

Veneziano turned to face him, though he did not look at him. "Did he get a say in what happened?"

Austria did not look at him, either. "Even if we had asked, he would have been too weak to reply."

-

Vienna, March 1848

Austria looked as confused these days as Veneziano had ever seen him. They were all staying inside most of the time, and Austria would sometimes move the curtains aside, peering out the window and sighing in his delicate way, uttering phrases like "degradation of society" and the like.

Veneziano was forbidden from leaving the manor. He wasn't sure why; but Austria was permitting him to sit by the piano and sing, so he saw no reason to ask questions. He was so placated, in fact, that it took him a while to realize that Hungary wasn't much speaking to Austria.

Austria didn't seem to notice this either, or if he did he gave no indication. She, too, was forbidden to leave the house; but she was also assigned fewer and fewer chores, which she completed with less and less care.

But Veneziano's life went along much as it always had. He did his chores, he read his books, he wrote to his brother and only rarely received a reply (Romano did not always get the letters, it seemed – the roads to his house were not so good). Sometimes Poland was there to stay, but for the most part he only had Hungary and Austria to talk to.

"Do you ever wish—" Hungary began one day, pausing from her work on the dishes. She stared ahead out the window with her head cocked just slightly and a thoughtful frown frozen on her face. They sat in a very long silence while Veneziano waited for her to continue – or maybe it just felt long, uninterrupted by the productive clinking of dishes, so strange that Hungary could think of a statement that she could not finish.

Veneziano, standing beside her at the sink, leaned against her, his brows furrowed in concern. When she felt his weight, she blinked and straightened, startled out of her reverie.

She smiled at him and nudged him with her shoulder. "Oh, don't mind me. Just thinking out loud!"

"About what?" Veneziano gave her an encouraging smile.

Hungary chewed on her lip and looked down at the sink. Then she turned her head to look at the door behind them, and a feeling of dread sank low in Veneziano's belly. He didn't like it when Hungary was nervous and actually _showing _it.

She turned back towards him, her head tilted down and her lips pressed together, two thin lines of worry on her brow. Veneziano had stopped scrubbing by now and simply let his hands float in the soapy water.

"I haven't told Austria this," she began, and Veneziano swallowed hard. Hungary wasn't in the habit of telling anyone things that she wouldn't even tell Austria – she might talk to Poland about them sometimes, but never to Veneziano, _"because you are simple and happy, and I want you to stay that way as long as you can."_ So he stood perfectly still and held her gaze when she finally looked at him. "But lately I… can't decide which part of me to listen to."

When she paused, Veneziano asked, "Well, what is each part trying to tell you?"

She picked up a plate and used her fingernail to scrape off bits of food. "One part of me is… very happy, so happy to be here with Austria and to help him and take care of him and protect him and—"

Hungary was smiling faintly now, but then her eyebrows knitted together to make the expression something very sad – beautiful and sad, and though Veneziano did not like to see her being sad he could not help thinking how lovely she looked then, hiding all her truths just below the surface, burying her regrets with devotion. "But the other part of me says I am weak."

She did not get to continue before Veneziano's hands flew out of the sink, sending a trail of water through the air as he seized her arm, heedless of the suds and water soaking into her sleeve. "No no, Ungheria, you're not weak at all! You're the strongest person I know, you could win a fight against anything, you—"

Staring down at his hands on her sopping sleeve, Hungary let out a tired laugh, her sad face breaking into a grin. "Oh Italy, that's not what I mean. _Weak _because… I've grown complacent. I'm happy where I am. _I'm _happy, when my people aren't."

Veneziano didn't know what to say to that. He didn't like to think about his people very much lately, because when he did it caused an ache in his chest, one that bled into the other part of his heart where thoughts of his brother were buried.

His grip on her arm grew slack, and as he looked away she asked in a low voice, "Are you happy here, Italy?"

He immediately looked back to her with a smile and a nod.

She leaned down so that her face was inches from his. Her voice went softer, secretive. "But don't you think it would be nice to only wash your own dishes?"

His eyes went wide for an instant, his lips parted wordlessly. Then another, smaller, more genuine smile crept onto his face. He whispered to Hungary, "And my brother's dishes, too!" But he quickly let go of her arm and returned his attentions to the dishes in the sink. "But that won't happen, you know. Because Romano and I can't live on our own."

"You've grown a lot, though," Hungary replied, picking up a sponge and scrubbing the dish in her hand. She gave Veneziano a sidelong glance. "France helped you with that, didn't he? You're much taller now."

He turned to her with a wide-eyed grin. "You think so? Oh, but Austria said that living with France was very bad for me."

"Yes," she sighed. "He would say that, wouldn't he."

-

Austria left the manor not long after, and he took Hungary with him. She was very vague when she told Veneziano about it, and Austria was in a hurry to leave so she didn't have much time to go into details – all he could tell was that someone was getting kicked out and it was someone Austria was rather fond of; Hungary, for her part, seemed actually quite excited about the whole thing. They didn't even pause to lock the door when they left.

Not that it mattered; even if the door had been locked, Romano would have still managed to find a way in, because he was very good at that sort of thing, like how he was good at taking things out of people's purses without them knowing.

Veneziano was sweeping in the hallway when Romano came creeping around the corner, casting furtive glances all about until Veneziano called out his name in delighted surprise.

When Romano flinched, Veneziano hurried up to him. "Oh don't worry, Austria and Hungary are both gone and Poland's not living here right now so it's just me and now you too and oh I'm so glad you're here!"

But before he could embrace his brother, Romano took a step back, glaring at the broom in Veneziano's hand like it was some sort of bug, or a German Bible. He wrinkled his nose with a great snort and knocked the broom away, sending it flying across the hall.

"We're going home."

-

"Sardegna is leading it," Romano explained, gripping Veneziano's wrist as they weaved through the gardens behind Austria's house. His face was flushed and the teeth of his grin flashed in the sunlight when he looked back at Veneziano. "My kingdom is helping, and so is Toscana, and even the Pope, Veneziano!"

Veneziano grinned, more at Romano's expression than the other things, though they were very impressive things indeed. "If the Pope is helping, then it must be a good thing!"

"Of course it's a good thing! We will kick Austria out of your home, and then… and then maybe the Pope will let us live in Rome, and…"

He had stopped walking, and Veneziano stepped forward and twined their arms together, leaning against him. "And we'll cook a big dinner together, and I'll make a painting to put on our wall, and…"

_And everything will be okay._

-

_Venice, August 1849_

Austria brought his horse to a halt at the end of the bridge leading into the northernmost district of Venice. Hungary was beside him, her musket strapped to her back, and a soldier came behind them bearing a white flag. Austria's commander had made this trip before, several months prior, to little avail; but Austria was starting to get a headache from this venture, and he felt it was time for a personal intervention.

There were many soldiers facing him at the end of the bridge, their weary faces a mixture of fear and contempt. Austria paid them no heed, but turned his gaze towards the large building up ahead.

"Italy," he called, "come out now. I would like to speak with you."

The soldiers glanced back at the building. There was silence for several minutes before one window was thrown open, and a head of dark, tousled hair poked itself out.

"The hell do you want?"

Austria let out a deep sigh through his nostrils. "Where is your brother, Romano?"

"He's taking a nap. So why don't you piss off before you wake him up!"

This would not improve Austria's headache. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "_Ungarn_," he said low voice, "perhaps you can reason with him."

When she didn't respond right away, he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and saw that one hand was counting the number of soldiers between her and the building, the other resting lightly on the rapier at her side.

Austria cleared his throat. "_The friendly way_, if you please."

"Oh!" Hungary giggled, her cheeks reddening. "Of course, how silly of me!" She dismounted and approached the soldiers, her hands raised and her smile bright.

"Hello, Romano!" she called up to him, waving.

Romano was slow to respond. His voice was strained. "H- hello, Hungary."

"Listen, Romano – you've both done _very _well here. You should be proud of yourselves! And, well… we talked to Spain – he's not mad at you, you know. He misses you, and he wants you to come home!"

"That's too bad, 'cause I sure as hell don't miss him!"

Hungary clasped her hands behind her back. "How is your brother? Is he getting enough to eat?"

Austria knew she asked this in earnest, innocent sympathy, because she had helped to raise Veneziano and she cared for his well being even now; but she was no doubt aware, as Austria was, of the effect her words had on Romano. Austria could see the flash of panic in the young man's face even from several yards away.

But Romano's scowl returned quickly. "He's fine. He's _great_. Better than ever, thanks!"

Austria could hear the smile in her gentle voice. "I'm glad to hear it. May we speak to him, then?"

Austria did not miss the glance Romano threw behind his shoulder. "I told you, he's sleeping."

"Romano—we're worried about you two."

Romano gripped the windowsill and leaned forward; his voice raised, but his adamancy was overshadowed by high-pitched squeaks of his cracking voice. "You wouldn't have to, if you'd stop attacking our goddamned city!"

Hungary's hands were clasped in front of her chest now. "Please, Romano, we don't want to see either of you get hurt."

"That's rich, coming from you! _You're _the ones who're hurting us!"

"Romano!"

He jumped slightly at the firm address; Austria nudged his horse forward, straight into the cluster of soldiers, who fell back at his advance. "This foolishness has gone on long enough. Either you end it yourselves, or I will."

The former defiance on Romano's face was giving way to something rather ill; if Austria was closer, he might have seen him trembling. "This- this isn't going to end until you're out of our country!"

Austria sighed and shook his head. "Look at this city. The men are weak and tired. Piedmont has been defeated; the Pope has condemned you; even your own kingdom has abandoned this foolhardy venture. This war of yours is pointless, and I am going to put an end to it."

Romano's shoulders hunched and his cheeks puffed out in indignation; but even at this distance, Austria could see that his face was pale.

"Tell your brother," Hungary said, "that we want him to come home."

Romano wrinkled his nose, snarling. "'Home'? He's home right now! This is where he wants to be! But you don't care what he wants, none of you do!"

Hungary shook her head emphatically. "You don't understand, Romano—Austria takes good care of him, he takes good care of all of us!"

Romano responded, but not loud enough for them to hear.

"Romano?" Hungary prompted.

He leaned almost all the way out the window and yelled, "I said, 'not every slave gets to sleep with their master!'"

As soon as the words left his lips, he stood up straight as his eyes went wide. He backed away from the window. His voice cracked more than ever. "Uh, anyway, um—we're not surrendering, so you should just leave!"

And he slammed the window shut.

Hungary's shoulders slumped as she let out a sigh. "Well, Spain did warn us about how stubborn he is."

Austria waited until she had pulled herself back onto her horse before he wheeled his steed around to return the way they'd come. "But he is weak, like his brother. Besides, you saw those soldiers – they won't last through the month."

Silence followed this, and glancing aside he saw that Hungary was biting her lip and staring down at her lap with furrowed brows.

Austria coughed slightly. "I'm sure he'll feel better once he's safe at home. He's learned his lesson by now, and we shall simply have to pick up the pieces."

Hungary looked up at him with wide eyes, mouth opening to say something. But then she let out a long breath and nodded, giving him an unsteady little smile.

-

Romano flung the curtains closed and backed away from them as though there were on fire. A tremulous voice whispered from the bed behind him:

"That wasn't a nice thing to say about Ungheria."

"I know," he replied, staring down at his shaking hands. "She's going to murder me, isn't she. Oh Christ, she's going to cut my head right off and give it to Austria on a silver platter."

Veneziano started to laugh, but the pain in his stomach silenced him immediately, and he whimpered instead.

Romano turned to look at him, then quickly approached the bed, pulling a blood-spotted handkerchief from his pocket. He knelt beside his brother and dabbed the handkerchief at Veneziano's nose, which had begun to bleed anew.

"I should've just ignored them until they went away," he muttered. "But you should've seen Austria – that snobby face of his looking so annoyed, it was great!"

Veneziano groaned and curled into a fetal position, wrapping his arms around his abdomen. Romano reached back, grabbed the nearby wastebasket, and held it aloft.

"Anyway," he continued, looking away while his brother wretched into the wastebasket, "this whole thing must be really frustrating for him. I figure eventually he'll get so frustrated that he'll just go home."

As Veneziano gave a final, heaving spit into the basket, Romano found one of the few remaining clean spots on his handkerchief; he moved the basket and wiped the corners of Veneziano's colorless lips.

"I can't," Veneziano gasped, his bleary eyes unfocused, "I can't do this."

"Yes you can!" Romano scowled at him. "You've made it this far, haven't you? You can't let that bastard bully you anymore. He already thinks you're weak, and now you want to prove him right?"

"Romano… the Pope, he said the Pope condemned us—"

"Stop talking. You need to rest."

"If the Pope wants you to go home then why did you stay?"

"I said _shut up_, Veneziano!"

There was a _boom _in the distance, then another one much closer, and the ground shook and the window rattled and so did Romano's teeth as Veneziano clutched his head and screamed.

-

Turin, summer 1858

The Prime Minister of Sardinia had already closed the door to his office when he heard the voice behind him, "This is _bullshit_."

Cavour's grasp on Italian was tenuous, but fortunately, "merda" was fairly universal in the world of Romance languages. Which only left the question of how an Italian or anyone at all had managed to enter this locked room before him.

He whirled around, bracing himself against his desk as his gaze darted about what should have been an empty room. He quickly found the man leaning against the wall beside the door: very young, very tanned, and very, very irritated.

"Who are you?" Cavour demanded, then added in a more inquisitive tone, "How did you get in here?"

Romano leaned forward a little, his eyes wide with disbelief. "French? You're speaking _French?_" He threw his arms into the air and rolled his eyes up as he entreated to the ceiling, "What the hell is _wrong _with this place?!"

"Forgive me," Cavour replied, this time in Italian, and still peering apprehensively at this stranger. "My Italian is… not so good."

"I'll say. Your pronunciation sucks." Though it didn't, really, it was just different. They did a lot of things differently this far north.

Cavour pushed away from the desk, straightening. Now that his initial shock was wearing off, his pragmatic nature had restored itself. "Now I will ask again – who are you, and how did you get into my office?"

Romano hunched his shoulders and crossed his arms over his chest while he glared at Cavour for quite a while. His cheeks, red with anger, puffed out as he blew a sharp breath through his nose. But he couldn't be too surprised. Cavour was shrewd, Romano knew that much; but a keen intellect only got one so far when it came to recognizing Someone Like Him. Besides, Romano was used to not being recognized.

Didn't make it any less aggravating.

When he got sick of glaring, Romano squared his shoulders and spoke, "You don't need to know who I am. All you need to know is you are a _bastard _and you are _fucking everything up_."

Cavour narrowed his eyes. "Did Mazzini send you here?"

"No." Romano approached him and poked him hard in the chest. "I came here on my own to tell you that you're an asshole and you're going to mess this all up if you keep going like you are."

Cavour glanced over the teenager, trying to make some sense of him. Peculiarities aside, though he was crafty enough to sneak into a government office, he was only a boy, and a rather tactless one at that. "Very well." He sat down at his desk, folding his hands over his wide stomach. "What is _this _that I am going to destroy?"

Romano's breath hissed through his clenched teeth. "Don't play dumb. I _know _who you just met with."

"Do you? Very strange, as that meeting was supposed to be a secret."

"Can't hide things from some of us."

Cavour set his hands palm-down on the desk, giving a mild little smile. "Well, I cannot imagine why a boy as young as you would have so much interest in politics. But because you already seem to know things you should not, why not share some details? Yes, I went to France, and I met with the Emperor. He agreed to join us in a war against Austria."

Romano snorted. "And you believed him?"

Cavour shrugged. "You think France has any desire to show kindness to the Austrians?"

"Of course not, he doesn't show kindness to _anyone_. What makes you think he—France isn't going to screw us over in the end?"

Cavour stroked the thin line of hair at his chin. "Oh, I think I have made it worth France's while."

Romano narrowed his eyes, bringing his hand up to slowly scratch his neck. "And let's say France _doesn't_ screw us over, and we actually win this war. What happens then?"

He held up a finger, his raised eyebrows sending wrinkles up his wide forehead. "Ah, this part is quite interesting! We will create Italy, yes, but it will be a confederation, with Rome at the center. Specifically, the Pope. Piedmont will govern the north, naturally, and we will create a new state in Tuscany, and Naples and Rome will remain as they are – only under our supreme rule, of course."

The guard on Romano's face faltered as his brows knitted together. "So… the Pope will lead us? The whole nation?"

"More or less, I suppose. You like the idea of the Pope being in charge?" Before Romano could even begin his tentative nod, Cavour continued, "Well, so long as he does not become too attached to all his territories. Because some of them might get taken from him. For the good of Piedmont, you see."

Romano sputtered wordlessly for a moment, his hands dropping to flounder at his sides. "You- you're going to steal Papal lands?"

Cavour gave an exaggerated wince. "Oh, _steal _is such a harsh word. You see, we will simply annex a tiny portion of those lands to just slightly expand Piedmont's sphere of influence. It is all quite innocent."

"You can't do that. He is the Pope!"

"He is only a man."

"But he is the _Pope_!"

"And he stands in the way of a full Italian unification. The French, they want the Pope to lead Italy, if any one man must do it; so I will tell them what they would like to hear. Nevertheless, he is a man standing in the way of our goals."

Romano lunged forward, slamming his hands down on the desk and shoving his face in front of Cavour's. "_What _goals?"

Cavour linked his fingers together, meeting Romano's gaze with that same placid smile. "Oh, I'm sure if you think very hard, you will understand."

Letting out a huff, Romano clenched his hands upon the desk, but they only shook harder that way. "Why do you want to unite Italy? What the hell would you gain from it?"

"Why does anyone engage in these pursuits?"

"For God. For family."

"For glory," Cavour added.

Romano leaned in even further, close enough to see each individual hair lining Cavour's jaw. "For the good of the nation!"

Cavour tapped a finger on Romano's nose. "Exactly! I work for the good of my nation. _My _nation – which is Piedmont."

"_Piedmont _is—" _It is _his_, it is part of _him_, YOU are part of him, why can't you understand, why can't any of you understand--!_

A noise of disgust tore from Romano's throat as he whirled around and marched towards the door. As he wrenched it open, Cavour spoke behind him.

"Are you all of Italy, then?"

Romano stared hard at nothing in the hallway. His voice was low and tight when he finally responded, "Just the south."

"And why are you meeting with me, instead of the north?"

He turned back just enough to see Cavour out of the corner of his eye, blurred with tears of frustration. "I'm here because he can't be."

He slammed the door on Cavour's mild, pensive face.

-

_Rome, 1858_

"For Italy," they kept saying, entreating to farmers who didn't even know what Italy was. "For Italy," everything they did, every city they conquered or signed away, except no one had thought to ask Romano if that was what Italy wanted. But people never thought to ask him much of anything – he was too abstract a concept, too weak, too fractured to be recognized for what he represented, which was—hell, he wasn't even sure anymore. It seemed like there was only one person with any kind of authority who could ever see him for what he really was, and that was often because Romano always made a point to introduce himself to that man.

When Romano met with him, it was not the same way he had met with Cavour – one does not saunter so arrogantly into this office, and Romano had not had reason to disrespect a pope since the Borgia were in power.

The elaborately adorned guards did not even give Romano a sideways glance as the Pope led him into his private office deep within the holy city; Romano closed the door behind them.

He locked his hands behind his back, keeping his head lowered and his eyes fixed on the lush carpet. "Thank you for seeing me, Your Holiness."

The Pope circled around to sit at his desk. "I have not seen you in quite a while. You have been busy these past few years."

Romano winced. His felt a scolding beneath the mild tone. "Things have… been complicated. I'm sorry if… my actions… I did not mean to disobey you."

Pius made a small noise that was barely an acknowledgement. "You have been to see Cavour."

Romano had never asked how the pope knew all that he did – it was simply to be expected. "He told me his plan for—for the peninsula. For my brother and I."

"Yes, I have heard of this plan. Italy will be divided into a four-part confederation, with my office at the head."

Here Romano did meet his gaze, as well as he could with his head still lowered – the top of Pius's head was obscured by Romano's furrowed brows. "He's going to betray you. He wants your lands for himself."

Pius let out a great sigh, his fingers forming a steeple in front of his lips. "I expected as much. Sardegna has always sought to expand its territories, and Cavour is particularly ravenous with his ambition. The men of his kingdom are not to be trusted." He gave a smile that just barely crinkled his eyes. "But I am glad that you have not been caught in his sway."

Romano looked down again, rolling his shoulders in an awkward shrug. There were many things he wanted to say about Cavour, but none that he would even think of uttering in front of the Pope.

Pius stood from his desk and approached Romano, who knelt immediately, mostly with reverence, but with no small amount of shame. No one asked him what Italy wanted, but in the end it was a good thing, because Romano wasn't sure he knew anymore.

"But tell me," Pius asked, "what did you think of Cavour's plan? Of your nation under my dominion?"

Romano swallowed hard before answering. "If I'm going to have one man leading me, I'd like it to be you." But he kept his head down, for he was thinking of another holy man – one who had pulled him to his feet and told him to straighten his vestments and fetch armor for the bishops, because things were going to change and he would no longer be ruled by petty criminals. And things had changed, but that had been many years ago, and he had still been so small when he had collapsed beside Julius's deathbed, wailing, "You promised, you _promised_—" But this was not God's kingdom, and Julius had been a mortal man, and Romano was doomed to the mercy of lesser mortals once again.

Pius brought his fingers to Romano's chin, tilting his head up, then lightly put his hand upon Romano's cheek, reddened with shame and sadness. The Pope's face was not unkind, but it did not hold the warmth it once did, before Romano had lost his trust. "I forgive you your trespasses, my child. You and all who come with you."

"It's more than we deserve," Romano said, or tried to say – but he choked on the words, as he did when he kissed Pius's hand.

-

The war did not go well.

Actually, it went very well at first, until France had decided to do exactly as Romano had expected. France and Austria had already worked out the terms for the peace treaty, of course, and it was only after the fact that they allowed Cavour in to hear them.

Veneziano was there too – maybe Austria had considered it a kindness to let the brothers see each other, or maybe he was simply reminding Romano of the truth of the matter; but even if it had been the former, it still I_stung/I _like the latter, and Romano did not want to meet his brother in this way.

He also was very tempted indeed to watch Cavour's face whenever he finally emerged, for the brief, dark feeling of satisfaction he would get by saying "I told you so;" but the whole affair was making Romano's stomach churn and his chest clench and he was certain if he stayed here much longer he was likely to explode.

But as he made to storm out, his brother's voice halted him: "Romano!" He didn't turn around, but he soon reeled from the force of Veneziano throwing himself against him and embracing him from behind.

"I'll miss you!" Veneziano sang in a soft warble.

Romano stared at his feet. What could he say in response? _Not for long, I'll be coming for you soon, we'll be together again_? He couldn't comfort Veneziano so in good conscience, not with all that stood between them now.

When Veneziano gave him a squeeze, he turned his head just slightly to watch him out of the corner of his eye. "Aren't you pissed about this? You're the one they're fucking around with. How can you just sit there and take it?"

Veneziano nuzzled the back of his neck; Romano could feel his upturned lips against his skin. "It's not so bad!" He rested his chin on Romano's shoulder. "They take care of me, because you know I would mess things up if I was on my own, so this way my people and I will be happy!"

Romano could've smacked him right then. Instead he let out a loud breath. "And did you think to ask _your people_ what would make them happy?"

When Veneziano replied, it was without any inflection or emotion or anything that was his own voice, but still with that cheery smile. "Austria says that's unnecessary."

Romano wrenched himself from Veneziano's grasp, pacing in front of him, fists clenched. "Forget what Austria says! Who _gives a shit _what Austria says?"

Veneziano looked down, his finger poking thoughtfully at his lip. "I think Austria does," he mumbled.

Romano made a nose that could've been a growl from someone with a deeper voice. He marched forward and grabbed Veneziano's shoulders, giving him a little shake. "What the hell's the matter with you? Did you forget how to think for yourself? Just _forget _Austria for a minute and tell me what the fuck _you _want!"

Veneziano looked up at the ceiling, tilting his head, a faint "hmm" humming through his pursed lips. "I want… I want a house in the mountains – and by the water! Definitely a house by the water – a river or a lake or the ocean, it doesn't matter which as long as it's a nice view, the kind that makes you want to make things. And I want lots of paint and canvases, and I want you cooking one of your tasty seafood dinners, and we could sing one of the songs Papa taught us, one of the ones no one ever sings anymore because Papa forgot to write them down."

Sighing, Romano relaxed his grip on Veneziano's shoulders. "That's… not exactly what I meant, but…"

"What do _you _want, Romano?" Veneziano stared at him with wide eyes, grinning, curious and genuine.

Romano sputtered for a moment. "You're missing the point! It's not—hell, I _know _what I want! I…" He wanted to stop getting jerked around, at the mercy of those who insisted they knew better. He wanted to stop that nagging feeling of forgetfulness, like he had dropped something, every time he crossed a border. He wanted to cook in a home of his own while he listened to his brother sing.

Maybe Veneziano really did understand what he meant.

His hands slid down from his brother's shoulders, pulled by some invisible weight. He did not look at Veneziano when he muttered, "I guess a house on the water would be nice."

He was saved from further details when the door flew open and Cavour stormed out, his round cheeks red and his shoulders hunched. As he stomped past the brothers, Veneziano called out, "Did it go well, Prime Minister?"

Cavour lurched to a halt and spun around to look at the brothers, his arms spread wide and his cheeks puffed out. "Did it go—how do you _think _it went when I was not even invited to the negotiating table? My god, they make us sit through the entire construction of the treaty for godforsaken Crimea, but when it is something that truly _matters _to us, they can't even let me—"

Well, if Romano was going to stay for this, he was going to be at least partially satisfied. "I might have told you that would happen. Actually, I think I did."

Cavour scowled at him. "Piedmont will receive Lombardy," he stated, as if it was an insult and not a concession.

"Guess you got what you wanted, then." Romano crossed his arms over his chest. "More land for Piedmont! You should be fucking thrilled."

Cavour opened his mouth for an angry retort, but his face relaxed into a thoughtful expression, because that was when Veneziano stepped forward.

"Take good care of the people in Lombardia, will you? They are used to Austria, but I think they will do fine with you. So take good care of them!"

Cavour was staring at Veneziano with his lips parted and his head tilted just slightly, squinting as if trying to recall a name. Veneziano took his hands and smiled.

"Thank you for trying, Camillo! Maybe I'll see you again soon."

The door opened again and they heard footsteps passing by, and an idle voice called out, "_Italien_."

Veneziano paused just long enough to kiss Romano's cheek before he scurried after Austria.

They were alone now, and Romano did not look at him when he said, in a low voice, almost reverent, "_That_ is what I was fighting for." He started to walk away.

"Idealism," said Cavour, slowly and deliberately, "will not unite a country."

Romano stopped to stare down at his feet, his face scrunched from the _stench _pervading this whole affair that he could not block out. "It doesn't do much of anything, does it?"

-

Sicily, May 1860

Two ships came to Marsala early in the summer bearing a company of soldiers. A ragtag bunch, Romano thought, not something he would call a proper army. Their "uniforms" consisted of red shirts in varying shades and fabrics. He estimated there were about a thousand of them. The old man who led them was apparently bandying about words like "liberation," "the King," "Italia."

Romano watched the first battle from a nearby hill. The soldiers in red were outnumbered, but the ending was nowhere near definitive, and in fact several Sicilian soldiers fled past Romano, casting glances back towards the battlefield, uncertainty etched upon their faces.

-

Men were joining their ranks by the dozen. The original company had been composed mainly of Venetians, but now citizens of Sicily joined to fight beside them.

On the way to Palermo they passed a young man sitting against a fence post. His hazel eyes watched them beneath thick, furrowed brows. His round, rosy cheeks and his petulant expression made him look rather young, though his eyes said otherwise. He looked clean-shaven at first, but as they drew nearer they saw the faint black hairs above his lip that were not quite ready to be shaved.

The general paused on the road beside him. "Be proud, bambino!" he said, and the diminutive made the young man twitch. "You get to watch Italia become whole!"

The young man raised one dark brow. "That so," he replied.

The general raised his chin. "It is." He inclined his head in farewell and started down the road again; but the stranger's voice halted him.

"You're from the north, aren't you?"

The general turned back to him. "Yes – from Nizza. Most of my men are from Lombardia."

"Nizza, eh?" He crossed his arms over his chest. "You mean France's newest plaything."

The general's face grew red, and not from embarrassment. The relinquishment of his home city was still a sore spot for him. "It is an _Italian _city, and it will always be so!"

"That's not what your buddies in Sardegna are saying."

Shaking a fist towards the young man, the general growled, "That conniving fool had no right to give away our lands! Cavour does not speak for all of us!"

The young man leapt to his feet, and they saw then how short he was. "He speaks for you boss, doesn't he? You're fighting for Piedmont!"

"I fight for Italia!"

"Oh yeah?" He put his hands on his hips. "Did Italia ask you to?" The general looked taken aback by this statement, as they all were. The stranger continued in a low voice, squinting at them, "What do you have to gain here?"

The general puffed out his chest and squared his shoulders. "What do you have to lose?"

The young man opened his mouth to reply, but could manage nothing besides a few wordless noises. Then he snapped his jaw shut and raised his chin, and he and the general locked eyes for a long minute, saying nothing.

The stranger broke the silence at last. "How far are you going?"

"All the way to Nizza, if my men and I can manage it."

The young man wrinkled his nose, adjusted his jaw, then let out a huff that could almost have been a laugh. "Yeah. We'll see about that."

The General had expected dissention; but he had hoped for better, at least, among the Italian youth. Sighing, he inclined his head slightly. "_ArrivederLa_, then. Maybe someday you'll change your mind about this."

Romano, for his part, had long since given up on hoping for better. Men like this were just perpetuating that annoying cycle, pushing and pushing until someone bigger decided to push back, and they were all shoved once again into the little holes that had been assigned to them by the great defenders of the status quo. It took all of them at once, he'd decided with grim satisfaction, to pretend to be his grandfather reborn.

The army marched on, but the General lingered. "Hope," he said, turning back to Romano, "is not a bad thing."

Romano did not look at him, but leaned against the fence with his arms crossed over his chest. "It's a persistent son of a bitch, and it keeps coming back but never follows through."

The General planted his rifle on the ground and leaned upon it, asking with genuine curiosity, "Are you happy with the way things are now?"

Romano glared at him out of the corner of his eyes. "I don't see anything better coming my way."

The General snatched up his rifle, gesturing at Romano with it, and making him jerk back with surprise. His was a different sort of confidence than the kind he'd seen from Cavour, or the Pope, or France and Austria and all their leaders. It was not the confidence of someone aware of his own cunning, or someone with the greatest armies of the world behind him, or someone who was used to looking down from on high. This General's confidence came from somewhere else, and it was hard for Romano to place because he wasn't sure if he had ever met it before.

"In a few weeks," the General said, holding Romano's gaze with all the force of a king and all the heart of something better, "look to Rome. Then I will give you something better."

The General turned and followed his army, leaving Romano with the strangest feeling, like Garibaldi was not just speaking to him, but was promising something to _him_.

-

Campanga, August 1860

They took Messina soon after, and the Redshirts' general declared himself the dictator of Sicily, ruling it in the name of Piedmont's king, who he called the King of Italy. After Messina they left for the mainland, and they had only been there a few days when Garibaldi heard a voice from the hill behind him.

"Hey, old man—er, signore!"

Garibaldi and the men turned to find a familiar young man stumbling down the hill. The general raised his eyebrows.

"It's a long run from Sicilia, bambino!" he said. "Did you follow us this whole way?"

The young man stopped in front of Garibaldi, bracing his hands against his knees as he caught his breath. When he straightened again, he glared at Garibaldi with furrowed brows. "You said you're going to Nizza at the end. Think you could make a stop in Venezia?"

Smiling beneath his grey-flecked beard, Garibaldi clapped his hand upon the young man's shoulder. "It may take a long time. But we will get there."

He nodded. "I'm holding you to that."

Garibaldi looked him over, observing the pistol and dagger he carried at his side. "Are you any good with those?"

The man's face reddened slightly. "Not sure yet. But my old boss was, so I figure I must've picked up a thing or two."

"What's your name, bambino?"

The young man swallowed hard, then raised his head. "Call me Romano."

"Romano, eh?" Garibaldi grinned. "We'll get there too, someday!"

-

Teano, 25 October 1860

Romano had seen plenty of kings in his time. Lately they all looked quite the same to him, and seeing him now for the first time it seemed the king of Piedmont was no different.

No, not Piedmont.

The king's forces stood across from Garibaldi's as the two men joined hands and Garibaldi hailed him as the King of Italy.

But Romano did not stay to watch the entire event. He was busy climbing a hill overlooking the scene, towards the lone figure at the top. He stopped several feet from Veneziano, who stared down the hill with his hands clasped over his chest.

"You did it, Romano," he breathed, turning to look at him, his eyes shining golden with sun-reflected tears. "You did it!"

Romano rested his hand on the dagger at his side. "Not entirely."

"But you've done so much already!"

Romano's shoulders heaved and drooped with a heavy sigh. "So you still think living with Austria's what's best for you?"

Veneziano's laugh rang high and clear across the hill. "Oh Romano, you know I'm not supposed to be thinking anything!"

He tilted his head then, his gaze drifting to something behind Romano. Romano turned to see Garibaldi standing a distance away, his wide eyes fixed on Veneziano.

Veneziano ran until he reached Garibaldi, who had fallen to his knees. He had to stoop very far in order to kiss Garibaldi's brow, and to throw his arms around him. It was difficult for Romano to notice when it was just the two brothers standing together, because they were very close in height, but he could tell now that Veneziano had gotten taller. Even with his talk of how he was not thinking, he had grown as much as Romano did.

By the time Romano approached Garibaldi, Veneziano was gone, leaving the older man to stare straight ahead, tears brimming beneath his wrinkled lids.

"What'd he say?"

"He said," Garibaldi murmured, "_thank you_. And…" He slowly turned to gaze up at Romano. "To give his love to the Mezzogiorno."

Romano nodded, clapping his hand down on Garibaldi's shoulder. "The Mezzogiorno thanks you too."

-

_to be concluded_

**Historical Notes:**

A lot of the information I gathered for this came from a book, so I can't exactly cite it here; but it's called _A Concise History of Italy_ and it details what a magnificent clusterfuck this whole affair was.

-The Mezzogiorno = Southern Italy.

-1848 was a pretty crazy year for Europe. The revolutions started in France and spread all across the continent, even making their way to Vienna. The Hungarians were in revolt, and eventually the ultra-conservative Metternich was kicked out of office. While Austria was busy with THAT, it allowed the Italian states to have their own uprisings. The Kingdom of Piedmont-Sardinia declared war on Austria and was soon joined by the Papal States, the Duchy of Tuscany, and the Kingdom of Two Sicilies.

-Even after Piedmont had surrendered to Austria, Venice was still resisting. The Austrians laid siege to the city for nearly a year. Suffering from lack of supplies and a devastating cholera plague, the Venetians were forced to surrender at the end of August 1849.

-Camillo di Cavour was the Sardinian prime minister during the Risorgimento, and he orchestrated much of the unification movement. He was a pragmatist who believed that unification would only be possible with outside assistance. To this end, he entered Sardinia into the Crimean War to win the favor of the great European powers, and eventually he organized an alliance with France against Austria, offering up the cities of Nice and Savoy as bargaining chips. Unfortunately, Napoleon III soon realized that a war for Italian unification was not in France's best interest, and he arranged a separate peace with Austria. Piedmont was not invited to join the negotiations for the Treaty of Villa Franca, though they did win the territory of Lombardy as a result.

-Pope Pius IX was originally very sympathetic towards the reformers in Italy. He changed his mind after he got chased out of Rome by one of the 1848 uprisings, and after that become strictly reactionary. (Pope Julius II is the pope that Romano recalls. His other name is Pope Badass.)

-Giuseppe Garibaldi pretty much thought Cavour was a giant dickwad for giving up his home city to the French, and he decided to take matters of unification into his own hands. He gathered up 1,000 dudes and set sail for Sicily, which he quickly took over, and then he marched on the mainland and headed north, where he eventually met up with Piedmont's king, Vittorio Emmanuele II, and handed over all the lands he had won to form a united Italy.

...minus Veneto and Rome, but we'll get to that later.


End file.
